


Hearts and Wrists Intact

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Hospital AU, just teenage dumbassery, self harmer!pete, they’re in high school but it’s not a high school au, this is. awful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 04:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17780657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Pete’s been broken up with, right before Valentine’s Day. It hurts so much, he really just wants to die. Two slit wrists and a hospital stay later, he manages to find someone new.





	Hearts and Wrists Intact

Pete flung himself into bed, digging his face into the pillow and screaming. He let the tears gush from his eyes and the sobs emanate from his mouth, because that was all he could do. The world was cold and cruel, and this meltdown was, in a way, the only thing he had control over.

He’d been in love, hell, he was still in love. How could someone-how could the world-be so awful as to break his heart like this, and right before Valentine’s Day too? They were going to go to the dance, they were going to make out on the school roof, they were going to be in love forever. But then everything had to go and be ruined.

Sure, this made Pete into exactly the kind of person he never wanted to be-a stupid high schooler moping about losing love. But this was supposed to be different. This was supposed to have been real.

And then it all went to shit when Pete had got that text saying “I can’t do this anymore, I think it would be best if we were over”. Pete had been too much for the love of his life.

What’s more, Pete was too much for himself. The deep darkness that had been ever-present in his mind kept on crying out for him to just give up, to make the pain of the loss end and to show the person who broke his heart just what they’d really done. It wouldn’t be suicide, Pete told himself. It would be murder.

So Pete went off in search of his one true friend. The only one who had stuck with him through all the pains he’d endured over the years. The one who had swiftly made the hurt in his mind go away, even if just for a moment.

As Pete pulled the razor blade out of the drawer, he barely even stopped to consider what he was doing. It was just a standard procedure, just the thing he had to do to make everything okay again. With trembling hands, he touched it to his wrist, the cold metal stinging his bare skin. Droplets of blood bloomed from the wound as he dug the blade in deep, dragging it back and forth along his arm. Soon the blood was pouring, dripping down his arm and onto the floor. He only managed to half heartedly slash at his other arm, opening a more shallow but equally long wound. Blood continued to gushed out, numbing Pete’s arms and dulling his thoughts. Pete felt dizzy, sitting down on the tile in a futile effort to regain his balance. He swore he could feel his heart beating-his broken little heart, quietly pumping still despite the absolute ravaging that had befallen it. Smashed, broken, utterly destroyed, its final attempts to circulate life through Pete’s sad little body only ended up on the floor. It was poetic, Pete decided. Reaching up with his less bloody arm, he wiped a few tears from his eyes. More than a few, really; tears had been pouring from his eyes for several minutes, and judging by the convulsions Pete felt through the numbness in his body, he’d been sobbing too. But that was okay. Everything was going to be okay.

Pete barely heard the knocking and shouting coming from the other side of the door. The rest of the world felt like nothing more than a distant memory, and all he really wanted to do was sleep. He curled up peacefully on the carpet with no care for the bright red blood staining the white fabric. It was warmer than the tile, and he just wanted a cozy place to lie down and sleep.

The next few moments played out like a slideshow in his mind, with blurred images and barely-audible sounds of panic. A door clicking open. Someone holding his hand. A siren getting closer. Bandages on his arms. A loud beeping noise.

And then nothing.

For a moment, Pete actually felt it. That peace he had been searching for, the deep emptiness in which he could no longer mourn his lost love. There was no sadness. There was no feeling at all.

But then the feeling came flooding back into him in the form of a deep ache in his arms. The beeping noise was gone, making the white room eerily devoid of sound. His eyes and his throat stung from crying, and fuck, his arms hurt. Pete ran a finger along the wound to try and ease the pain, and he shuddered as he felt an array of stitches holding him together. It was gross.

“Pete?”

Pete looked up at the woman standing in the doorway. He’d never seen her before, and she was wearing blue hospital clothes-a nurse, Pete gathered. Shit, he was in the hospital. What the hell had he done?

“Would you like something to eat? A glass of water? Anything?” the nurse asked, a smile ever-present on her face.

“Is it morning already?” Pete managed to stutter out.

“Technically, yes, it’s about three-thirty right now. If you want to wait another few hours I can get you some real breakfast, but in the meantime I can get you some pretzels or crackers if you want.”

“I’m good, thanks,” Pete replied.

“Alright. There’s a bathroom over through that door to your left. You can press that button behind you if you need to go, and someone will come and unlock it for you.”

“Wait, what?” Pete’s head spun, and not in the I’ve-just-lost-a-lot-of-blood kind of way. Surely the nurse was making this up. Pete was in high school, for fucks sake, he could use a bathroom.

“We can’t let you use the bathroom without supervision. It’s a safety issue.”

“A privacy issue, more like,” Pete muttered under his breath. What was he going to do anyway, drown himself in the toilet?

As soon as the nurse was out of the room, Pete desperately tried to get back to sleep. The constant sting in his wrists kept him from relaxing, as did the sheer mindfuck that was being away from home in a hospital having just tried to off himself. And of course, there was always that nagging feeling of his lost love in the back of his mind, only adding to the feelings of isolation that came from the place. There was a point in the night where Pete started to wonder if they’d let him go to the bathroom by himself if he pissed his bed. Eventually, though, he decided it wasn’t worth it and instead performed the humiliating task of taking a piss with some woman he didn’t even know the name of diligently waiting outside the door.

Pete wanted to tear his stitches out and bleed to death right then and there.

The nurse returned a while later to ask Pete what he wanted for breakfast. Pete simply replied “toast” considering he just wanted to end the conversation as fast as possible, and then continue to sit in his room all alone.

“You know they’re moving you down to the other ward later this morning, right?” the nurse informed Pete.

“No?” Pete responded. For whatever reason, the prospect of leaving the room was suddenly terrifying to him.

“You’ll be a lot happier there than here, I’m sure,” the nurse explained. “There’ll be other kids there, you’re going to be able to go to group therapy, you won’t have to just sit in bed all day.”

“That sounds… better,” Pete said. Really, he had no fucking clue.

“It will be, I’m sure,” the nurse assured him. “Anyway, you can just sit tight, I’ll call in your breakfast. You can just sit tight until then, and then someone should be here to take you down to the other ward once you’re done eating.”

“Thanks,” Pete muttered.

The nurse stepped out of the room, leaving the door open a crack. Pete found himself staring at the beam of light drifting in through the door, not really looking for anything but nonetheless curious as to what was contained beyond it. He hadn’t been awake when he’d arrived, and all he knew of was this room. It was a weird feeling.

Sooner or later, a different nurse arrived carrying a plate of the kind of French toast sticks they serve in school cafeterias. Pete figured it was an interesting definition of “toast”, but who was he to complain?

“I’ll wait here while you eat that,” the nurse announced. He placed the plate of food on the plastic table connected to the bed, and then leaned up against a wall and stared intently at Pete. “As soon as you finish, I’ll get a chair and take you down to the other ward.”

“What do you mean, a chair?” Pete asked, already grabbing one of the French toast sticks. He’d been provided with a fork and an ungodly amount of little condiment-packets of syrup, but he really didn’t have the energy to deal with them, and instead just started eating with his hands like an animal.

“We need to transport you in a wheelchair. Just hospital policy,” the nurse explained. Pete shook his head. He was already done with the dumbfuckery that constituted hospital policy, as most of it seemed to be solely focused on humiliating him. Of course, there was nothing inherently wrong with using a wheelchair, but when you have working legs and someone is insisting on pushing you around, it feels kind of insulting.

Pete ate quickly, seemingly thinking to himself “let’s just get this over with,” but he couldn’t really comprehend his own thought patterns at that point anyway. At last he finished, and the nurse took his plate out of the room and returned holding a purple hospital gown and pushing a wheelchair.

“Put this on,” he instructed, placing the gown at the foot of Pete’s bed, “and get in the chair when you’re ready.”

Pete put on the gown and tied the ribbon at his waist. It felt humiliating, being made to wear the thing, even over his clothes. The gown was bulky and uncomfortable, and it made Pete feel like a pawn in some strange humiliation game. Sitting in the chair was a similar experience-he felt powerless, helpless, alone. He felt like a fucking mental patient.

He _was_ a fucking mental patient.

The nurse wheeled Pete down the hall, into an elevator, and up to an unknown floor (Pete didn’t see the man press the button). Upon getting off, they were greeted with the sounds of children playing coming from down the hall. The noises drew closer, and Pete didn’t know whether to feel calmed or horrified by them.

Through another door was the ward that would be Pete’s home for an unknown amount of time. Pete traced the stitches on his arms just as an effort to calm himself-the noises of the ward were overwhelming. A group of kids, none of whom could have been more than ten, sat in a circle on the floor playing a game of cards. Another kid, who looked to be about Pete’s age, ran down the hall and slammed into a door. The nurse ignored all of them, and simply wheeled Pete into a room that looked a whole lot like a doctor’s office.

“You can get up,” the nurse instructed. Pete did so.

“Now what?” he asked, scared of what the response would be.

“I’m going to have you take off your clothes and then put the gown back on. Just so I can do a search on you to make sure you haven’t brought in any blades or anything.”

Pete added a third item to his list of eternal bullshit in this place. Figuring he’d already reached the threshold for maximum humiliation within the past twenty-four hours, he just went ahead and took his clothes off.

Once the nurse was apparently satisfied that Pete hadn’t brought in anything sharp, and Pete’s eyes were beginning to fill with tears, Pete was finally allowed to put his clothes back on.

“Now I want you to fill this out,” the nurse instructed, handing Pete a sheet of paper and the weirdest pen Pete had ever seen. On the paper was a list of foods under categories of breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with the instructions to circle an item for each category. It felt oddly dystopian. Pete circled items basically at random (he’d never been picky) and handed the menu back to the nurse.

“Good,” the nurse mused, sounding a bit too much like a movie villain for Pete’s liking. “Now I’m just going to show you to your room, and then you can either stay in there or go out and meet the other kids.

Pete followed the nurse out the door of the exam room and farther down the hall to his own room. The door was odd just on its own-heavy and wooden, with a small window in the center that had blinds controlled by a button on the outside of the door. The inside wasn’t much better-the mattress appeared to be made of hard rubber, and there was a table in one corner with a chair that looked like a larger version of the kind of chair they have in preschools. An additional doorway (no door, which made Pete kind of sick) lead into a bathroom, complete with the cheapest looking shower curtain and weirdest looking toilet Pete had ever seen. This place was starting to feel more and more like a prison.

Feeling utterly helpless, Pete sank to his knees in front of the hard rubber bed.

“I wanna go home,” he sobbed. “This place is a prison, I’ve done nothing wrong and I wanna go home!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” the nurse replied coldly. “I’m going to leave you here now, but you can go out and play with the other kids whenever you’re ready.”

Pete heard the door open and close behind him, but he didn’t move. He sat on the floor crying for a long, long time. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to a few days ago, to be back in the arms of his lost love. Warm and safe and happy, on a soft couch and without the stitched-up gashes in his arms. All Pete wanted was to go back, to somehow do better, to stay with the love of his life. He wanted them to be together on Valentine’s Day, to dance together and to kiss and to be in love forever and ever.

But that was ridiculous. The only thing Pete could even begin to hope for was going home, and even that seemed hopeless at this point. Pete felt trapped, more than he ever had in his life. This place was a prison. He felt like a prisoner. And it all fucking hurt so bad.

With nothing better to do, Pete left his room and began to wander about the facility. He felt like a real mental patient, hospital gown dragging behind him and stitches constantly pulling at his wrists. He even felt scared walking by the other kids, worried about what they’d think of him. Pete held his arms firmly to his sides so as to hide the gashes on his arms from view. The faded scars covering the still-exposed parts of his arms were still visible on account of the hospital gown having short sleeves, and it made Pete feel naked and gross.

Pete eventually entered what appeared to be a dining area-there were a few tables scattered about the room, all of which were surrounded by those same weird kindergarten chairs. A television sat in a cabinet on the far side of the room, playing some children’s cartoon Pete didn’t recognize. Sitting at one of the tables closer to the TV was a kid who was probably older than the target audience for that cartoon. In fact, he looked about Pete’s age. Seeing as this kid seemed non-threatening enough, Pete decided to take a seat across from him at the table.

“You’re new,” the kid mused.

Pete looked at him, not sure how to respond. The kid was pale, and his blonde hair was a mess. His glassy blue eyes stared back at Pete behind rectangular glasses, and Pete could tell that the kid was very small underneath the undefined shape of the hospital gown. His arms were thin and bony, and he had a distinctly frail and sickly appearance to him. This should have disturbed Pete, or at least set off a red flag or two in his mind, but it didn’t. Maybe within Pete’s fractured mental state, this kid was just perfectly normal.

“I… I guess I am,” Pete replied. “I’m Pete, by the way.”

“Oh. I’m Patrick.”

“How long have you been in here?”

“Uhhh…” Patrick paused, blushing slightly as he stared off into the distance looking for an answer. “What day is it, anyway?”

“Almost Valentine’s Day,” Pete said, sounding embarrassingly depressed about it. “So maybe like, the tenth? Twelfth?”

“Jeez,” Patrick sighed. “I’ve been here a while, then. I got here back in January.”

“So you must be getting out soon, right?”

“Not until I make progress.”

“Oh.” Pete didn’t know what ‘progress’ meant in Patrick’s case. He was frankly afraid to ask.

“It gets better though.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Patrick rested his head on the table. Pete couldn’t stop thinking about how cute he looked. He wanted to gently run his fingers through the boy’s hair, he wanted to hold his hand, he wanted to hug and kiss him. God, did he really miss being in love that much?

“Do you… do you mind if I ask what happened to you?” Pete said, his voice hushed. The sound of a cartoon dog explaining something about the alphabet coming from the TV nearly drowned out his voice, and somehow made the atmosphere feel even more dystopian.

“I do,” Patrick replied. “We just met. You don’t need to know that.”

“Fair,” Pete agreed.

“Is it though? I can see your arms. I think I can get an idea of what _you_ did.”

Pete shuddered. He looked down at his arms, which may have been placed stitch side down on the table, but were still covered in little lines and spots of scar tissue that he could never hope to hide. Of course Patrick knew damn well what they were. Anyone who saw scars like that and didn’t immediately think “he’s a cutter” was either a small child or just lying to themselves.

“I mean, the scars aren’t really the whole story,” Pete explained. “I got my heart broken. And I had enough.”

“Classic,” Patrick said with a sick little grin. “How’d you do it?”

Pete turned his arms over to show off the ugly, sewn-up gashes that commemorated his suicide attempt. He felt sick to his stomach. He was embarrassed, ashamed, utterly sickened by his own behavior. All he was was a stupid kid who went through a relatively tame breakup and decided to take the nuclear option.

“Pretty,” Patrick whispered, eyeing the gashes in Pete’s wrists as if he was an antique marketer attempting to appraise an old map or something to that effect. Except in this case, it was more akin to an old suicide note, penned out in blood on an old tattered bit of parchment for dramatic effect. The cuts on his wrists were disgustingly extravagant, screaming “look at me, look at how tragic I am!” to all who dared look on.

“Pretty?” Pete exclaimed, feeling almost offended that someone could see those disgusting things and call them pretty.

“Yeah. Pretty. I can see the blood through the stitches, almost. It’s like your whole heart is open to the world.”

“You’re even more poetic than me,” Pete laughed.

“Oh, come on. Don’t flatter me. Or yourself, for that matter.”

“Seriously. There’s nothing poetic about a kid going through a breakup and slitting his wrists, but you wanted to find some beauty in it.”

“Maybe so. But don’t think for a second I’m one of those ‘find the good in everything’ people. Sometimes things suck. So I sympathise with people like you who say ‘fuck it’ and take the first gun, knife, rope, or bottle of pills out of this shitty world.”

“Jeez.”

“What? I’m a messed up guy. Check out the robe, the wristband, the whole look. I’m a literal mental patient.”

“Don’t you want to be happy though? Don’t you want to go home?”

“Sort of. I just don’t want to do what they’re trying to make me do.”

“What are they trying to make you do?”

“Awful things. I… I can’t.”

“Dammit. I wanna help you, Patrick! I wanna get us both out of here, I wanna escape and go get ice cream together or something! I want to watch TV that isn’t for preschoolers. I wanna live a normal life with you.”

“Falling in love already, are you?” Patrick grinned.

Pete blushed strongly.

“It’s nearly Valentine’s Day,” he argued. “And besides, I’m lonely.”

“Do you want a kiss?” Patrick asked, batting his eyelids just slightly. “We’re not supposed to touch, but fuck the rules, right?”

“Yeah,” Pete agreed. He leaned in towards Patrick, and Patrick gave him a quick peck on the cheek. It nearly brought Pete to tears. He’d missed being kissed so much. It hadn’t even been a week since losing the love of his life, but it still felt like years since he’d been touched, kissed, given any chance at all.

“Aww, Pete, don’t cry,” Patrick said. “I’m sure whoever you lost wasn’t everything. You’ll find something, or someone, and that’ll make you happy.”

“I just want this to be over,” Pete moaned, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t wanna be sad. I don’t wanna be crazy. I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong place,” Patrick sighed, shaking his head.

“I didn’t have a choice!” Pete cried. “One moment I was bleeding out, and the next moment I’m lying in a hospital bed with sewn up wrists. If it had been my choice, I would’ve gone home. Or just bled out when I had the chance.”

“Do you still wish you were dead?”

“What else is there to wish for?”

Patrick just stared at Pete. It was a look full of pity. Pete hated the look, the way Patrick’s glassy, half-dead eyes widened with sorrow. There was sympathy, empathy even, behind those sickly blue-green windows. All the hurt Pete was feeling, he knew Patrick could just see it. Feel it. Devour it like candy.

“I like you, Pete,” Patrick grinned. “You know, if you’re ever feeling alone, I’d be happy to sneak off to my room with you. I have a softer bed that we can cuddle on. It’s one of the hospital beds from a normal people ward, they need one in my room cause of all the treatments I have to get sometimes. It’s small, but it’s definitely cozier than the hard-plastic garbage they give you.”

“Are you saying that because you love me, or because you feel bad about me losing someone I love?”

“Both. I-“

“And why aren’t you in a different ward if you’re still getting physical treatment?”

“You still have stitches, right? They’re going to have to take those out eventually. In the meantime, you’re healthy enough to hang out on this floor. I’m the same way. Just a little more… labour intensive.”

“What are they giving you?”

“Injections. Sometimes drips, depending on… the circumstances. They want me to have a more comfortable bed, since I get sore from them. And they don’t think I’m going to try and tear it up.”

“That’s why they put everyone else on cheap plastic mattresses?”

“Yup. They think you’ll try and claw apart a better mattress. Like animals.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“I know. But we can make the best of this. Together. And one day we’ll get out. And whoever gets out first will wait for the other.”

“Yeah.” Pete could feel himself falling down a mountain, stumbling headfirst into love with this boy he’d just met. But somehow he just felt crazy enough that he wanted to make it work. Maybe it was his current situation, or maybe his mind was just that fucked, but Patrick had charm. Mystery. And if it wasn’t for those sickly, dead eyes, he’d be fucking adorable.

So fuck it. Why shouldn’t Pete have fallen head over heels for the first guy he saw? It’s not like he had much to live for anyway, and hey, it was nearly Valentine’s Day, so why not stupidly fall in love?

“Do you wanna go back to my room now?” Patrick whispered, sounding both sweet and mischievous. “They’ll have doctors walking around the ward, but if we’re fast, we can slip past them. I always leave my door open, so we won’t have to get someone to unlock it.”

Pete nodded. Patrick took him by the hand, and the pair practically skipped, disgusting little hands linked perfectly, all the way down the hall to Patrick’s room. Patrick shoved the door open, dragging Pete quickly into the room, and then slammed it behind him.

The inside of the room actually quite resembled Pete’s previous hospital room-there was a soft-looking gray bed in the middle with a gray plastic headrest, and a few tables set up around the room with wet wipes and bandages and other things you usually see at the pharmacy when you get a flu shot. Pete took another look at Patrick’s arms. He couldn’t see anything, but maybe the blemishes were under the sleeves. Shots usually went in the top part of your arm, anyway. It wouldn’t be that unusual.

“What are they putting in you?” Pete asked, sort of horrified by the process of injecting a kid with god knows what on the daily.

“Well… it’s not an injection, per se. They bring in a machine, and they have a medicine drip into my arm. Usually it’s after I’m asleep though.”

“Can’t you just take medicine the normal way though? If you’re that sick, again, how are you here?”

“It’s not just ‘medicine’,” Patrick sighed. Pete could tell he was getting fed up with the line of questioning. “They have to put meal replacements or whatever in there. Whatever they’re called. It’s because I don’t eat.”

“What do you mean, you don’t eat?”

“It makes me sick to eat. I just can’t stand it. It feels gross.”

“You starved yourself.”

“I don’t like to think of it that way. I just… stopped eating.”

“Same fucking difference.”

“I guess. I mean, it was all the same to my parents when I got so malnourished I couldn’t stand up. But they couldn’t find anything physically wrong with me, so they figured it had to be a mental problem.”

“Don’t you think they could be wrong?”

“Hell no. I didn’t stop eating because eating made me sick, I stopped eating because I didn’t want to eat anymore. And then when I stopped, eating started to seem gross.”

“Man… how are you ever going to get out?”

“I don’t know. But in the meantime… don’t you want to come lay in my bed with me?”

“I don’t know. I… this feels weird. You’re stuck here. Forever. They’re going to keep giving you feeding tubes or whatever, and you’re going to keep not eating.”

“Maybe if I have something to look forward to on the other side… maybe I’ll eat something. If we were in love and I knew you were out there for me if I could do it, I think I would.”

“So why don’t you do it right now?”

“It’s like you said. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to wish for.”

“Then I’m going to get out as fast as I can. So you can follow me.”

“Okay. In the meantime though, just… please come cuddle with me.”

Pete finally obliged. He stood at the edge of Patrick’s bed as Patrick desperately tried to squish himself as far to the side as possible. The little plastic wall that bordered the sides at the top third of the bed kept him in, but also kept the space quite cramped. Eventually Pete climbed in to join him, their bodies flush together in the tiny bed. Pete’s deeply scarred arms met Patrick’s pale, bony arms, and their hands intertwined gently.

“Can I have another kiss?” Pete asked.

“Of course,” Patrick said, grinning that same little grin. It was sweet and cruel at the same time; Patrick was an anomaly for sure, and Pete wasn’t sure how to feel about him, but he wanted to trust the kid. He wanted to love him, even.

Patrick leaned in to kiss Pete. He didn’t have far to go, considering how close together they were already. This time, he kissed Pete right on the lips, holding him close and doing wonders on his mouth. Pete even wondered how the kid had learned to kiss so well, but he didn’t bother asking, as opening his mouth to speak would end the glorious kiss.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered as Patrick finally backed off.

“Thanks,” Patrick beamed.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Pete said, his voice shaking. This was peak irrational decision, but he was willing to fall headfirst into it.

“I know you’re in love with me,” Patrick replied. “The question is, do I want to exploit that?”

“Exploit?”

“You’re sad. You’re vulnerable. You miss what you had before the breakup. So you’d do anything to get it back. First you try suicide, then you fall in love with the first boy you see. It’s not my charm, or my looks, or anything like that. I just happened to be the first eligible bachelor you saw.”

“So what?” Pete grumbled. “You’re perfect.”

“No one’s perfect.”

“If you got better… you’d be perfect.”

“God dammit, Pete. If you really want me to love you back, cut the dumb excuses and just beg already.”

“Do you love me?” Pete asked, pouting.

“I just met you, dumbass.”

“But-“

“And so far, I like you a lot. I want to trust you.”

“Me too.”

“Alright, fine. I love you, Pete.”

“Love you too, Patrick.”

They lied there together, staring into each other’s eyes like stupid kids in love.

“If neither of us make it out by Valentine’s Day, do you think we could make a date for ourselves in here? Even convince them to put on a dance?” Pete asked.

“Like I said, no touching allowed. We’re going to have to keep it secret.”

“Cool,” Pete replied. Not that he enjoyed sneaking around, but he was just glad Patrick wanted to date him.

To Pete, Patrick seemed like a sweet kid with a rough exterior. He was snarky and existential because he felt he had no other choice. Everyone needs to protect themselves somehow when they’re in a place like this-either you’re as sweet as honey so the staff will trust you, or you’re a condescending and harsh little shit so no one dares go near you. Patrick had obviously taken up the latter of the two, but Pete still believed there was sweetness in him. Maybe it was wasting away along with the rest of Patrick, or maybe he’d just been pushing it down for so long it was barely visible, but it was there. There was love and sweetness deep within Patrick. And Pete wanted it all for himself.

“I think you should go,” Patrick interjected.

“Why? What did I do?”

“Nothing, sweetheart, it’s just that dinner’s soon. They’re going to look for you. And if they find you in my room…”

“Oh,” Pete sighed. He slowly wiggled himself out of Patrick’s bed, taking one last longing glance at Patrick before stepping out the door. Patrick looked as small and frail as ever as he lied there, his body obviously much too small for the hospital gown. It made Pete even sadder, seeing just how awful Patrick’s condition really was.

He kept the door open for a brief second, keeping one eye trained down the hall for any approaching staff.

“You sure you don’t wanna come to dinner?” he asked halfheartedly.

“You’re funny, Pete,” Patrick replied.

Pete shook his head and closed the door behind him. He returned to the dining area, sulking.

“Pete. You made it to dinner,” a woman in blue scrubs greeted him. She approached Pete carrying a plastic tray with a bowl of macaroni and a carton of milk.

“I guess I did,” Pete replied.

“How was your first day? Make any new friends?”

“Uhhh. I met that blonde kid… Patrick. He’s not here right now.”

“He usually isn’t,” the nurse(?) replied. “I’m glad you made a friend though.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, considering you don’t have any history of major mental illness, they’re thinking you’ll be able to go home soon.”

“Really?” Pete didn’t believe it. Sure, his records didn’t show that he had any history of mental illness, but his brain sure did. If he’d gone to a therapist instead of cutting himself, ironically they might not have been thinking about letting him go so soon.

“You’re lucky, Pete.”

“I know.”

“Just to confirm, your other scars…”

“They’re new,” Pete lied. “Me and my… girlfriend… broke up recently. All this is just an overreaction to that.”

“That’s what we figured,” the nurse said. “Well, enjoy your dinner. I’m going to see if I can get Patrick out here for you. He should be done with his treatment soon.”

“Good.” Once again, Pete didn’t believe her. He knew Patrick was nowhere near done with his treatment (it hadn’t been five minutes since he’d left the room), and even if he was, he wouldn’t go anywhere near the dining area. Pete reluctantly tucked into his macaroni and cheese. 

At least he was going to get out soon. If Patrick was telling the truth, as soon as he was out, Patrick was going to try. Pete wanted him to try a little sooner, but what could he do?

The night was rough. Pete desperately tried to sleep on the hard plastic bed with the cold, scratchy sheets that only made the pain in his wrists worse. He’d always had trouble sleeping, but the animal-proof bedding didn’t help. After what felt like an hour, Pete emerged from his room. He tiptoed down the near-empty hallway (there were fewer staff at night) all the way down to Patrick’s room. Maybe Pete would sleep better if he could share a cushy bed with a cute boy…

Pete stared through the window. The light was off, and he couldn’t see anyone in the room besides Patrick lying in bed, so he went ahead and knocked on the door.

“It’s okay, come in,” Patrick said.

Pete, of course, didn’t have a key. He knocked again.

“Pete?”

Pete knocked again.

Patrick slowly got out of bed and opened the door.

“Not enjoying your doggy bed?” Patrick asked, grinning.

“Maybe I just missed you,” Pete replied.

“Whatever. Come on in, loverboy.”

Pete slid into Patrick’s room and followed him into bed. It was so soft, and Patrick was so gentle. Pete fell asleep nearly instantly.

He awoke to Patrick shaking him awake.

“Pete, you gotta go.”

“Huh? Patrick, I’m tired.”

“You gotta go. They’re going to give me my treatment soon, you’ll get caught.”

“Fine,” Pete sighed, worming his way onto the floor. “Can you come to breakfast this morning though? Please?”

“Why?”

“I want you to get better.”

“You’re not a doctor, Pete. You’re not going to be able to help me.”

“I’m not going to force-feed you, Patrick. I just want you there with me.”

“Fine. I’ll be there. Now go before someone sees you.”

Pete opened the door and ran down the hall to the dining area.

“Pete?” A different nurse asked. He was the sole staff member Pete could see, and he didn’t seem too happy to see a kid up so early.

“Yeah.”

“You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep. It’s hard to sleep when your bed’s made of rubber and the bones of dead children.”

“Pete, can you please be civil?”

“Sorry. I was joking about the rubber.”

“Go back to bed, kiddo. I can get you another blanket if you’re cold.”

“When can I go home?”

“From what I’ve seen, they’re thinking tomorrow. You’ll be home for Valentine’s Day. Got a girlfriend back home?”

“No. She dumped me.”

“Aww, I’m sorry, kid.”

“I met someone here.”

“Lucky you. Give her your number, maybe you can spend a day together if you’re both out in time.”

“H- _she’s_ not leaving any time soon. If we could just celebrate Valentine’s Day in here…”

“No can do, kiddo. We don’t want you kids touching each other.”

“You know we’re not infected, right? I’m not going to catch an eating disorder from kissing the person I love.”

“We’re not stupid. It’s a consent issue.”

“So a hug is bad, but forcing a kid to sleep on what amounts to rocks is okay?”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“How long until breakfast?”

“About an hour. I can turn on the TV if you want. Or you can go back to bed.”

“Nah. I’ll wait. Can I have a pen and paper? I wanna write.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Yeah.” Pete blushed.

“Well, unfortunately, there are no pens allowed here. We can get you some markers though.”

“Fine.”

Pete waited for the nurse to grab him some markers. At long last, he returned carrying a blue marker and some copy paper. Pete accepted it scornfully.

He wrote down his phone number on the corner of one sheet and ripped it off, intending to give it to Patrick later. Then he closed the marker and put everything aside, collapsing onto the table. Apparently he was still sleepy.

Pete awoke again to a light tapping on his shoulder.

“You were gonna give me your phone number.”

“Yeah.” Pete lifted his head and turned to smile at Patrick. To his surprise, he saw tears in Patrick’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Patrick whispered.

“Patrick, are you crying?”

“No, I’m just… sore from treatment this morning.”

“You wanna try and eat something? The sooner you try, the sooner you won’t need the treatment anymore.”

“I know. It’s just hard, okay?”

“I know.” Patrick wiped his eyes. “You’re leaving soon, aren’t you.”

“They’re thinking about tomorrow.”

“How is that possible? You’re covered in scars. You probably belong here more than most of us do.”

“I convinced them they were new.”

“Naughty, naughty.” Patrick tried to force a smile through tears. “I’m gonna miss you, dumbass.”

“You have my number. You’ll be able to call me.”

“Bullshit. They only let us call our parents. And I’m never getting out of here.”

“You told me you’d try if it meant getting to see me on the outside. If you’re going to start armchair diagnosing me, maybe you should start with yourself.”

“I know I’m messed up. They feed me through a tube. This is why I didn’t want to exploit your feelings for me. Because even if you were my soulmate, and I could prove that for a fact, I couldn’t love you back. I’m not getting better.”

“Okay. Okay. Last time someone did this to me, I slit my wrists. But okay.”

“Don’t guilt me.”

“Don’t give up on yourself.”

“You know what? Fine. I’ll try.”

“Thank you.”

“You know it won’t work, right? The moment that food touches my lips I’m gonna throw up.”

“I ordered Cheerios. They’re bland. Just eat one.”

“And?”

“That’ll prove to them you can eat. It’ll prove to you that you can eat. And then you’ll be able to get out, and we can go on a date. A real one. Outside.”

“Do we have to get ice cream?”

“No,” Pete laughed. “But by the time you get out, maybe you’ll want to.”

“You think you can fix something that a month in this place couldn’t do anything about?”

“You know. I’m crazy and all.”

“Good luck, baby.”

“This is for you, you know.”

“No. You’re a lonely kid who just got broken up with. You wanna be loved again once you’re out of here. And if I can get better, which is a big if, I’m willing to love you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, dumbass.” Patrick grabbed the scrap of paper with Pete’s number on it. He sat on the floor next to Pete and stared at the powered-off TV for a few minutes before a nurse dragged a big metal cart into the dining area. The nurse pulled a plastic tray out of the cart, which held a single-serving package of Cheerios and a carton of milk. He brought it to Pete.

“So this is the lucky lady?” the nurse asked smugly. Of course he had to be the same nurse from earlier.

“Yeah,” Pete smirked. “Isn’t she cute?” He rested his head on Patrick’s shoulder for a moment just to piss of the nurse.

“You’ve got a type,” the nurse grumbled. “Enjoy your breakfast, Pete. Patrick, I take it you didn’t order anything.”

“Sorry,” Patrick said guiltily.

Pete waited for the nurse to leave before reaching down to hold Patrick’s hand.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“No.”

“Alright. Just try these when you are.” Pete handed the cereal to Patrick before opening his milk carton. He didn’t look down as he heard Patrick pull of the lid of the container and grab a handful of cereal.

“I can’t.”

Pete looked over. Patrick was holding his hand over his mouth.

“Did you try?”

“Yeah. I-I just can’t, okay? I’m sorry. You’re going to be alone on Valentine’s Day.”

“So? Keep trying. Maybe someday it’ll be different.”

“Someday,” Patrick agreed. “Next Valentine’s Day, I promise we can go to the best restaurant in town.”

“I don’t have expensive tastes,” Pete laughed.

“You’re really willing to wait that long.”

“I love you. Of course I can wait. And it’s not gonna be that long.”

“You sure?”

“No. I just really wanna be sure.”

Pete wound up sleeping in Patrick’s bed again that night. It might be a lifetime before they see each other again, so he was willing to risk everything. Of course he didn’t think he could heal Patrick on hope and love alone. He just hoped Patrick was strong enough to pull through.

Checking out of the hospital the next day was almost more painful for Pete than slitting his wrists had been. He didn’t even get to hug Patrick goodbye one last time. Pete cried silently all the way home. It was the second time in a week that he’d lost someone he loved, and he was about to be alone and sad on Valentine’s Day.

Valentine’s Day was more than a drag. Pete faked sick and spent the day in his room, sobbing and wiping blood off his sheets. At least now he was over his previous boyfriend. He could barely remember the other boy’s name, since thoughts of Patrick consumed his mind. Pete almost considered tearing his stitches out in hopes that a second suicide attempt would land him back in the ward and let him see Patrick again.

Then Pete’s phone buzzed. He almost didn’t pick it up, afraid to confront anyone while the brand-new cuts on his arm started to sting. But, as the self-destructive sicko that he was, he picked up.

“Hey dumbass. How are you holding up?”

“Patrick?” The tears all flooded back into Pete’s eyes, his voice broke, his blood-stained hands shook.

“It’s me. It’s okay.”

“You got out.”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“I figured you’d be doing something stupid.”

“You figured right.”

“Dumbass.”

“My parents aren’t home. I can clean it up. We’re finally going to be outside at the same time.”

“Yeah.”

“So you actually managed to eat again,” Pete said, his voice beginning to even out as the initial shock wore off.

“Call it determination. I was worried about you. I was right.”

“And you’re still eating now.”

“Yeah.”

“You fixed yourself for me.”

“Magic.”

“This is why I love you. You’re amazing.”

“So… it’s Valentine’s Day. You wanna go out?”

“Where? When? How?”

“There’s a park by my house. I’ll walk there and then text you my location.”

“Cold.”

“I’m going to be wearing layers anyway to cover up the scars. You can borrow one of my jackets, even come back to my house if you get chilly. I just wanna see you, okay?”

“Guess I’ll bundle up, then.”

So Pete walked to the park wearing two hoodies and a winter coat, and then sat on a bench waiting for Patrick.

“Turns out you were close by.”

“Geez. We’re practically next-door neighbors.” Pete looked over to see Patrick standing there. He didn’t look as malnourished as he had in the hospital, but the bulk of jackets he was wearing probably helped.

“How’re you feeling?” Patrick asked, sitting down on the bench next to Pete.

“My arms hurt. But other than that, I’ve never been better.”

“Poor thing. I wish I’d gotten to you sooner.”

“You did the best you could. You did amazing.”

“So here I am. It’s a Valentine’s Day miracle.”

“It sure is.”

The two of them snuggled up close together, trying to keep warm. They stared out at the half-dead grass and the icicles hanging from the trees. It was all beautifully depressing. Maybe that was a metaphor for something, who knows.

“You wanna come back to my house?” Pete asked. “It’s getting colder. And my parents won’t get home until around five.”

“You want to cuddle in a real bed,” Patrick said with that trademark grin of his.

“Sure. It might have a few bloodstains in it, but I’m sure you can look past that.”

“Yeah. It’s okay, Pete.”

“I know.”

The two walked home, hand in hand.

Once they were up in Pete’s room, they threw their jackets on the floor and crawled under the covers. There were no bloodstains to be seen (although the sheets were black, so it would have been hard to tell), and Pete had made sure to put away his razor blades, so it wasn’t too bad. Patrick really did look better, less frail. His cheeks were rosy and warm, and he kissed Pete gently and perfectly. Pete reached up his scarred arms to take hold of Patrick’s face and pull him closer, hold him tighter, to make up for all the time they’d missed.

“I fucking love you, dumbass,” Patrick muttered between kisses.

“Love you too,” Pete replied.

As Pete held Patrick even closer, he could feel the pulse of his wrists against his face and the beat of his heart against his own chest. It was poetic, really, how gentle and comforting the soft beat of blood coursing through Patrick’s veins could be. It made him seem so whole, so perfect, so healthy. Of course, it wasn’t like Pete didn’t have blood pumping through his own body, it just found its way onto the floor a little more often than it should have.

Whatever. Pete loved being able to cling to someone like Patrick, to hold him close and just feel the love and hope inside him. It almost made Pete feel like he was okay himself.

And maybe that was good enough for him.


End file.
